Today is two months since my wonderful companion Cara died in our home, under the bed we’d slept on together for so long. The feline dynamic has been seriously out of balance but it’s interesting to watch. I’m still very out of balance myself but I think I’m getting better.
I still break down and cry when I think too hard about her. Sometimes I tear up not even realizing she was in the back of my mind. I’ll never get over it – I’ve been told that enough and it sure feels like it – but I do think I’m starting to adjust to life without her.
I no longer expect a bath- or poop-buddy when I go to the bathroom, no longer waiting to close the door for her to get up, stretch, and make her way to the bathroom. I no longer wake up and reach for her empty spot by my head. I no longer look down at the cat bed by my desk, saddened when I don’t see her there.
I do still wake up and hurt. Twice recently I had similar dreams where I’d wonder aloud why she hasn’t been coming to bed with Daddy lately … just as I wake up and say, “Oh.” I go back to sleep sad.
Our Wine Nights (A.K.A. “Friday”) haven’t been very much fun and it’s entirely my fault. Alcohol lets out the torrent of emotional groundwater that’s been lurking just beneath the surface. Damage done, the flood starts and doesn’t stop until I go to bed. Wine Night has been less frequent lately.
As some of you know, we plan to move about 5.5 hours away in a few months. I think of how much of a seasoned mover she used to be and how much this larger new place full of new areas to explore would have excited her. I think about our planned addition of a screened sun room would have thrilled her to no end. I think about how I didn’t realize our move into our current residence would be her last. Those things all hurt.
But my disrupted routine – as upset as such things make me – is finally becoming my “normal” routine: Life after Cara.
Daddy misses you every day, baby girl.